瑞伊﹒ruii

yet on the other hand, you embody everything he could never be - disciplined, working more than talking, decisive and effective in combat, consistently performing beyond expectations whether pressure is present or not.

perhaps that is why - despite your personality, despite the way you twist a knot of discomfort in his stomach - he wouldn’t have it any other way. he admires you.

he longs to be like you.

and perhaps that’s the reason he finds himself always observing from a safe distance, always tacitly admiring your precise movements - far more intently than those of any of his colleagues.

thus, when fate finally decides it is time for your deepest secrets to surface - your canto - he finds himself overcome by a mixture of emotions all at once.

excitement - at last, learning more than the three words you barely utter out of reticence; anticipation - the chance to finally glimpse the layers beneath your stoic exterior, to understand the source of the discipline and restraint that always set you apart; and unease - the realization that what lies beneath may not be simple strength, but scars and burdens that shaped the person he reveres.

as it unfolds, that fear proves not entirely misplaced.

the canto does not expose strength so much as it lays bare something far more fragile - something you had never intended for others to see.

and though resolution may come in time, in this moment, there is no comfort to be found in it - sinclair understands that much.

therefore, it is no surprise that you remain awake beneath the moon’s rise, long past its arrival. but then, why is he here too?

. . . to put it simply, he couldn’t help himself. whether his attempt will succeed or not, he feels compelled to try. he can’t stand idly by while the one he respects endures such a state, as though sinclair himself were suffering in equal measure.

thus - slowly, carefully, deliberately with each step - sinclair makes his way toward where your slightly rigid form sits.

the moonlight filters through the dull, grey‑toned window of the bus, painting you in pale strokes of silver as shadows ink themselves into the corners, fragments of the quiet night stitched across your figure.

he pauses for a moment, taking a breath hesitantly, as if the distance between you is more than just a few steps. it feels like crossing a threshold, like daring to enter a space that has always been yours alone.

yet he moves forward still, because the weight in his chest won’t let him stay still no matter what. admiration has become concern, and concern has become resolve.

“um, h-hello,” he starts, the syllables tumbling over each other; hardly the way one imagines a proper greeting.

“hello,” you return, your voice flat and monotonous as ever - no trace of surprise in it, no indication that his presence has disrupted anything at all.

“i. . i noticed you’re still awake. it’s late, and. . well, i thought maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“alone or not, it isn’t something you should trouble yourself over.”

ah.

“i was just. . worried,” he admits, the words slipping out softer than he’d prefer, yet anything but a lie. “so i thought i’d check on you.”

as you attempt to form a response, your eyes widen - merely slightly, but enough to betray your genuine surprise all the same. as though of all things, his concern is the one you least expected.

of course it does.

you had always chosen to face it alone. every battle, every moment of dread, every lingering uncertainty - to the point solitude had long since settled into something familiar, something dependable.

something safer than relying on others.

and yet, here he is.

still standing here, still trying.

“i just wanted to let you know. .” he says, voice faltering again as he struggles to steady it. “. . . you don’t have to handle everything by yourself.”

“i know i’m not exactly the most reliable person,” he admits with a nervous breath, careful with each word. “but if you ever need someone to sit with you, or just. . . be here, i can do that.” 

“. . .”

“i know the silence can be overbearing sometimes.”

the words settled between you, lingering within the bleak atmosphere of the bus long after they had been spoken. for a brief moment, you found yourself simply staring at him. perhaps it was because you had expected many things from sinclair tonight - awkward encouragement, hesitant attempts at comfort, even nervous rambling - but not this. not concern directed toward you with such sincerity that it bordered on painful.

yet despite the surprise, you found yourself unable to dismiss it. instead, your gaze drifted toward the empty seat beside you. after a moment's hesitation, you outstretched a hand and gestured toward it in silent invitation.

sinclair's eyes widened ever so slightly before relief softened the tension in his shoulders. he wasted little time accepting the offer, carefully lowering himself into the vacant seat as though fearful that lingering too long might somehow cause you to change your mind. even then, he remained cautious, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you - close enough to be considered company, yet far enough to avoid intruding upon whatever boundaries he imagined you might have preferred.

for a while, neither of you spoke.

the silence that followed wasn’t particularly comfortable, but neither was it unpleasant. it simply existed. unlike the countless nights before, it no longer pressed against your chest with suffocating weight, nor did it seem intent on swallowing every thought that crossed your mind. 

outside the windows, the city remained awake despite the late hour. distant lights flickered across the darkness, their reflections dancing faintly against the glass. from where you sat, they almost resembled stars scattered carelessly across the horizon, too far away to reach and yet impossible to ignore. 

sinclair appeared content simply to remain there.

he didn’t attempt to force conversation, didn’t pry into wounds you clearly had no desire to discuss - instead, he sat quietly at your side, hands folded neatly within his lap as if afraid even the smallest movement might disturb the fragile peace that had settled between you.

for someone who viewed himself as unreliable, sinclair possessed a remarkable talent for staying precisely where he was needed.

and though you would never admit such a thing aloud, you found that you didn’t mind his presence nearly as much as you once thought you would.

“. . . you think so?” after a considerable amount of time spent simply sitting beside one another and allowing the silence to drift where it pleased, your voice finally rises to meet the stillness. the question hangs between you for a moment, suspended somewhere within the pale moonlight filtering through the bus windows.

sinclair turns toward you. 

“yeah.”

the champagne-haired man answers without much hesitation this time. his voice remains characteristically soft, although there is a certainty to it that wasn’t there before.

“i do.”

for a brief moment, he seems content to leave it at that.

then, as if realizing such a short answer may not sufficiently explain himself, he lowers his gaze toward his hands and continues.

“i mean. . . i know everyone needs time alone sometimes. i do too.” a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips, small enough that it nearly disappears before it fully forms. “but there's a difference between wanting to be by yourself and feeling like you have to be.”

his gaze drifts back toward the darkened window as he speaks, watching his reflection blur amongst the distant lights beyond the glass. perhaps it’s easier to say these things when he isn’t looking directly at you. perhaps it’s because he understands the feeling far better than he wishes to admit.

after all, there had once been a time when he believed every burden placed upon his shoulders belonged there; a time when guilt felt so natural that he scarcely questioned its presence. even now, despite everything he had endured and overcome, traces of that habit remained stubbornly woven into him.

it’s difficult to ask for help when one becomes accustomed to suffering in silence.

maybe that is precisely why he came here tonight.

“you know,” sinclair continues after a brief pause, fingers idly smooths a wrinkle from his sleeve. “everyone always talks about how dependable you are.”

“how calm you stay, how you always seem to know what to do, even when things get bad.”

“whenever something happens, people look to you.”

the man exhales deliberately.

“. . . i do too.”

his shoulders stiffen almost immediately after the admission leaves his mouth. whether from embarrassment or simple self-awareness is difficult to say. regardless, he doesn’t attempt to retract it - there would be little point in doing so.

the words are true.

perhaps not everyone aboard mephistopheles looks toward you in moments of uncertainty - such a thing would be impossible. every sinner possesses their own opinions, preferences, and grievances. however, enough of them do. enough that when a difficult decision arises or circumstances begin deteriorating beyond control, their gazes often drift toward the same person.

“but nobody can be that person all the time. eventually someone has to ask how you’re doing too.”

the statement itself is simple. remarkably simple, at that. so simple that by the way he says it, it almost sounds as though it should have always been obvious. the sort of thing that ought never require verbal confirmation in the first place.

“we’re all human at the end of the day, aren’t we?” a small chuckle escapes him then. maybe an attempt to alleviate the increasingly melancholic atmosphere hanging over the conversation - if so, it achieves limited success. “we might be sinners, and we might be able to come back because of the manager’s power to turn the clock.” 

still, the smile accompanying it remains.

“but we’re still human.” 

“and humans aren’t machines. we can’t just keep going because circumstances demand it. we can’t keep carrying everything without feeling anything.” 

for a moment, his attention drops once more toward his lap, the golden shades of his eye dimmed for a fraction of second - as if there is this memory that drift by as he speaks.

“eventually we’’ll get tired too. physically, mentally, emotionally. . . sometimes all three at once.”

more often than not, people throughout the city treated such things as flaws - fatigue, hesitation, fear, grief,. . . they were imperfections to be corrected, inconveniences to be overcome. there was an entire industry dedicated to replacing human limitations with mechanical alternatives, after all. stronger limbs, sharper senses, faster reactions - countless methods existed for improving the body. yet despite all of that, a human heart remained stubbornly difficult to replace.

perhaps that’s what sinclair is attempting to say.

“people like to act as if those things are weaknesses, that they’re proof something is wrong with us.”

“but i don’t think that’s true.” his brows draw together ever so slightly as he speaks, gaze drifting away toward some indistinct corner of the bus. it still seems incapable of remaining upon yours for long. “because if getting tired means you’ve been trying your best this whole time - and doing it all by yourself, at that - then i don’t think that’s something to be ashamed of .”

“and with the fact that humans are social creatures at their core,” he adds. “i think it's completely okay to let someone else carry part of that burden for a little while.”

“that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

ah.

there it is again - that peculiar smile of his.

small and unassuming, lacking the confidence or charm one might find elsewhere. yet despite its simplicity, there’s something strangely soothing about it. something sincere enough that it becomes difficult to look away from.

under ordinary circumstances, you wouldn’t have paid much attention to such trivial, insignificant things.

for the longest time, your concerns rarely extended beyond yourself - the thoughts, emotions, and troubles of the other sinners aboard this damned bus had always remained comfortably distant, separated from you by walls you had carefully constructed over time. it was a selfish mindset, certainly, but not an unusual one. humans, by their very nature, are selfish creatures. they learn to prioritize their own survival long before they concern themselves with anyone else’s.

yet somewhere along the way, your emotions had begun slipping through the cracks.

maybe the events of your canto had weakened those walls, maybe exhaustion had finally worn them down, or maybe you had simply grown careless.

whatever the reason, enough had escaped for someone - sinclair, in particular - to notice. enough for him to walk across the bus in the middle of the night and sit beside you now.

curiously, the realization fails to evoke either the instinctive unease or the daily void you presumed it might.

as robotic and emotionless as you may appear, you have always despised being understood too effortlessly. despised being read like a book. despised the sensation of someone peering beneath the surface and uncovering the vulnerabilities you worked so carefully to conceal. despised being stripped of the armor you forged, left exposed in ways you never consented to.

yet as you sit beside him now, listening to the quiet conviction in his voice and observing the awkward earnestness that accompanies every word, those feelings fail to arrive.

all you find instead is a sense of understanding within his companionship. 

and perhaps, for the first time in a very long while - someone who showed you that your colleagues admire you, that they recognize how dependable you are. someone who reminded you that it’s acceptable to let others carry the weight for a while. someone who checked in on how you were doing. 

as your own gaze meets his shimmering golden eyes, you finally acknowledge that you are not alone, nor were you ever meant to be.

— it’s precisely that pride which forged the sharper edges of her personality: the competitiveness she makes no effort to conceal, the deliberately condescending cadence in her speech, and the near‑unshakable confidence she places in her own intellect.

— until she meets you, that is.

— reasonably speaking, faust dislikes you almost immediately.

— perhaps ‘dislike’ is too restrained of a word for the peculiar irritation curling beneath her ribs each time you casually correct one of her statements - not rudely, nor arrogantly, but with enough accuracy to leave no room for dismissal. 

— at first, she perceives your interjections as little more than an unpleasant habit. an attempt to challenge her authority. a needless inclination to chime into matters already settled by her conclusions.

— yet the issue lies within one inconvenient fact: you are correct - consistently so.

— not always in grand, dramatic ways, no. sometimes it’s merely a minor adjustment to a calculation she overlooked; other times, a clearer and more comprehensive reinterpretation of a phenomenon she thought she already fully understood. insignificant details, yes, but they accumulate.

— and faust notices every single one of them. of course she does - these matters concern her expertise, after all.

— it never fails to make her brows twitch for what feels like the tenth occasion of the day.

— however, there exists something far more irritating about this entire ordeal - something that makes her skin crawl ever so slightly beneath that composed exterior of hers. a feeling she hardly ever - if ever at all - experiences. 

— even people, or the countless intellectuals she had crossed paths with before, had never occupied her thoughts in quite this manner. howbeit, somehow, you manage it effortlessly - so unchallengingly, in fact, that several sinners have already begun noticing the subtle changes in her behavior around you.

— is it because you are her colleague - someone she is forced to remain around for extended periods of time ? perhaps it’s because your corrections are never delivered with arrogance, nor mockery, depriving her of any reasonable justification to dismiss them outright ?

— or perhaps it’s because, somewhere along the line, faust began experiencing something she had only ever truly felt once before - during that incident aboard the warp train - uncertainty.

— the longer this odd game of intellectual one-upmanship continues, the more irritation begins intertwining itself with something far uglier beneath the surface.

— insecurity.

— faust possesses immense pride - that much is undeniable - yet such confidence was never built upon arrogance alone. she has gesellschaft - an incomprehensibly vast collective of knowledge standing behind her, supporting her conclusions, refining her understanding, ensuring she remains ahead of nearly everyone else within the city.

— and yet, even with that advantage, you still manage to outpace her. again. and again. and again.

— it leaves something bitter festering beneath her ribs. growing moment by moment like a stubborn seed slowly forcing its roots deeper and deeper into soil unwilling to reject it.

— because if even the knowledge she prides herself upon proves insufficient before you, then what exactly does that make her ?

— no, that can't be the case. that must not be the case. no. absolutely not.

— faust, counting herself alone, wouldn’t be this degree of aggressive - irritated, certainly, but not enough for such ugly emotions to fester this deeply beneath her composure. however, the factor belonging to gesellschaft sure does trigger such. to an extent.

— their presence lingers constantly behind her thoughts, whispering into every moment you manage to outplay her once more. telling her - a genius - why is she being driven so downhanded by such an individual - someone they are quite certain does not possess a technique akin to theirs on their back, but merely their own knowledge alone. 

— before long - or perhaps for far longer than she would ever care to admit - faust attempts to rationalize it. surely there must exist a logical explanation behind your capabilities.

— maybe your field of expertise merely overlaps with hers more often than anticipated ? maybe your conclusions are aided by information inaccessible to others ? maybe your thought process simply differs enough from conventional patterns to produce more efficient results in certain scenarios ?

— with that being said, the issue with such reasoning lies within one simple, irritating truth: your intelligence does not appear limited to a singular field.

— whether it concerns calculations, abnormalities, combat strategy, linguistics, mechanical systems, or phenomena even some certain parts of the city itself struggles to properly categorize - you adapt with infuriating ease. worse still, you do so without carrying the same air of superiority she has come to expect from intellectuals of your caliber.

— you simply. . understand. as though the conclusions she spends precious seconds refining had already existed within your mind long before the discussion even began.

— there are moments where she catches herself watching you silently from across the bus. staring - bordering closer to glaring, if anything - while you spend your time conversing almost jovially with your colleagues. not out of fondness - certainly not that - but observation. analysis. an attempt to uncover the mechanism behind your thought process.

— soon afterwards, with those tendencies gradually growing more accustomed to gesellschaft’s constant words alongside the very nature of faust herself - whose hostility was never born purely from arrogance, but rather from an incessant desire to understand the city wholly - she eventually comes to accept one undeniable truth.

— yes. you are indeed smarter than faust herself.

— surprisingly, that realization merely drives her to learn more about your knowledge - about yourself - instead.

— she begins lessening those habitual tendencies to glare toward your direction whenever discussions arise; especially after you once remarked, rather casually, that such glaring would “eventually ruin her pretty eyes” - an absurd statement, frankly.

— yet ever since then, the twitch of her brows whenever you present a significantly more comprehensible plan for the sinners has noticeably softened.

— rather than immediately opposing your conclusions internally, faust slowly begins learning from them instead. from your words. your thought process. the peculiar ways your mind reaches answers before anyone else can fully piece the question together.

— however, to accomplish such a thing, she ends up following you around far more often than intended - to the point where the two of you are now, apparently, attached nearly hip to hip.

— the other sinners find this development utterly hilarious - despite faust herself not quite sharing their enthusiasm. after all, watching her shift from glaring daggers at you to quietly absorbing your explanations like a student listening to their instructor within such a short span of time is, admittedly, rather amusing from an outside perspective.

— nowadays, the two of you resemble that infamous pair of exceptional students within a classroom - constantly discussing matters no one else understands, nor particularly wishes to understand after a certain point.

— albeit faust remains noticeably competitive at times, the aggression behind it has lessened considerably beneath the surface. not entirely gone, certainly not, yet healthier now - more constructive than hostile.

— and perhaps most surprisingly of all, even gesellschaft itself gradually comes to embrace your presence.

— after all, you prove to be yet another remarkably plentiful source of knowledge now placed well within their - lcb faust’s - reach.

➤ YI SANG

— in contrast to faust, yi sang initially takes a rather passive - if not outright unresponsive - approach to your intelligence, particularly prior to his canto.

— after everything he has endured, the fact that someone happens to be exceptionally clever hardly seems important in the grand scheme of things. if anything, he occasionally regards you with a quiet sort of melancholy.

— your brilliance reminds him, perhaps unwillingly, of his own past - the days when he was praised as a genius, only for that same path to lead him toward mistakes and regrets he still struggles to fully leave behind.

— yet the more time he spends around you, the more those feelings begin to change.

— there is something oddly grounding about your presence. a difficult thing to explain, really, but perhaps it stems from the fact that your intelligence resembles his own in a strangely familiar way.

— and perhaps - just perhaps - it is comforting, too. a faint reminder of better days. of conversations shared with people he once cherished. a distant warmth lingering beneath memories that otherwise ache to revisit.

— though even yi sang himself would hesitate to admit that aloud.

— this develops far more noticeably after his canto - without the weight of the past dragging at his heels quite so heavily, yi sang becomes much more observant than most people realize.

— he notices everything - the way you already know the outcome of an argument before it reaches its conclusion, the way you subtly steer conversations, the way your plans always seem to contain three more plans hidden beneath them, the way your conclusions arrive through routes entirely different from his own.

— he finds himself. . . becoming invested in these things in more ways than one.

— now that he thinks about it, it's surprisingly rare to encounter someone capable of matching him intellectually while remaining so approachable and jolly. unlike faust, conversations with you rarely feel like a contest of superiority - they feel natural. comfortable. like speaking with a genuine friend.

— and it's a comfort he grows increasingly fond of - he lets you know as much from time to time, though not always in a particularly direct manner.

— before long, conversations between the two of you can probably last for hours - one hypothetical leads into another, which leads into three more, until everyone else has long since given up attempting to understand what either of you is talking about.

— unlike faust, yi sang experiences no bruised pride whenever you outsmart him. if anything, he becomes more interested and curious.

— the moment you arrive at a conclusion he failed to consider, his eyes seem to brighten ever so slightly. as though you've presented him with a puzzle he hadn't realized existed.

— he enjoys being surprised by you, really.

— yi sang also becomes noticeably more talkative whenever you're around as time pass. granted, "talkative" remains a relative term.

— he still speaks in strange metaphors, still drifts into abstract observations, still somehow turns a simple discussion into something resembling philosophy.

— and if you happen to enthusiastically follow along with all of it ? well. it quickly becomes heaven for the two of you and absolute hell for everyone attempting to decipher the conversation from the outside.

— though he rarely admits it, yi sang can become uncharacteristically and surprisingly competitive when the mood strikes.

— it’s not all that subtly aggressive or open, but still the two of you have absolutely spent entire evenings attempting to outmaneuver one another through increasingly absurd thought experiments, neither willing to concede and neither willing to stop.

— and somehow, both of you leave the conversation feeling victorious anyway.

— speaking of mental games, he grows particularly fond of playing chess with you. not simply because he expects to win - quite the opposite, in fact.

— he is fully aware that you will likely defeat him most of the time - and that on occasion you are probably allowing him a victory out of kindness.

— still, he enjoys it - because to yi sang, the game itself is secondary. what matters is spending time with someone whose mind he genuinely admires.

— as your friendship deepens, you gradually notice him developing the habit of seeking your opinion - not intentionally nor consciously. it simply happens, like a plant naturally turning toward sunlight.

— whenever a problem arises, whenever a theory is proposed, whenever some unusual phenomenon catches his attention - his gaze drifts toward you almost automatically.

— waiting. curious about what you'll think. what you'll notice. what angle he'll inevitably miss.

— another thing worth noting is that yi sang is actually rather easy to impress - not through grand achievements or impossible feats all the time; rather, through perspective such as a single observation he never considered, a new interpretation, a different angle, and that is often enough.

— and those moments remain with him for a very long time afterward.

— similarly, he develops the habit of quietly remembering your ideas, your comments, and your observations.

— weeks later, he may casually reference something you once said, nearly word for word. not because he deliberately memorized it, but it simply stayed with him.

— your thoughts gradually become part of the collection of ideas he carries with him wherever he goes.

— if you're particularly good at reading people. . . . yi sang appreciates that more than he can properly express.

— despite appearances, he is not as passive as many assume. when circumstances demand it, he is fully capable of standing up for both himself and the people around him.

— that said, he is grateful whenever you notice the smaller things like the subjects that make him uncomfortable, the situations he'd rather avoid or the moments where he begins withdrawing into himself - it makes him feel understood.

― he finds your thought process beautiful - not necessarily because it's correct, but because it's yours. distinct, unpredictable and entirely separate from his own.

― there's something deeply comforting in discovering a distant mind he can't completely predict. no matter how much he observes, no matter how many conversations the two of you share, there always seems to be another layer waiting beneath the surface - another thought process, another perspective, another conclusion he never quite anticipated.

― thus, the habit of stealing glances in your direction develops all on its own. absentmindedly at first, then with increasing frequency. likewise, his smiles become more common whenever you're around - they may be faint and subtle, but undeniably there.

― and though your intelligence certainly plays a part in that fondness, it's not the sole reason. somewhere along the way, he found himself appreciating your presence just as much as the thoughts you bring forth.

― perhaps it's because a friendship built upon mutual understanding and shared curiosity has gradually begun to bloom into something more. something softer. something neither of you can quite name yet.

― to yi sang, discovering something beyond his expectations has always been one of life's greatest joys - and somehow, no matter how much time passes, you continue giving him new things to discover.

under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be the end of the world. a little embarrassing and inconvenient, perhaps, but that would be the extent of it. 

unfortunately, fate seems to possess an outstanding sense of humor - because of all places, it simply had to happen on dyle’s floor.

a floor where mistakes are rarely afforded the luxury of remaining mere mistakes; a floor where a single failed skill check - or being spotted even once - can turn an otherwise uneventful run into a desperate struggle for survival within seconds.

and as though eager to prove that very point, the consequences arrive in the span of a blink. 

a monstrous beast covered in dark, uneven patches bursts from the distance with a speed so absurd it borders on incomprehensible. one moment, it’s little more than a vague silhouette lingering at the edge of your vision; the next, it’s already charging directly toward the source of the noise, bearing an unsettling resemblance to a ravenous predator closing in on its prey. 

every survival instinct within you erupts into a frantic chorus, every nerve in your small body screams the same message with overwhelming urgency: move.

run - run as far as those admittedly short legs of yours can possibly carry you.

yet dyle, in his twisted and barely coherent state, is no laughing matter. his reputation as a lethal did not earn itself.

you scarcely manage to put a few meters at best between yourself and your original position before something catches up - a force crashes into you with unimaginable ferocity, so overwhelming that it feels less like being struck by a living creature and more like being caught beneath an industrial crusher.

and before your senses can even begin to measure the extent of the damage inflicted upon your back, your entire body is already being hurled aside as though it weighs no more than a squeeze toy.

“kgh-” the sound tears from your throat despite the fact there is scarcely any air left within your lungs to support it.

the world spins. 

everything hurts.

for a fleeting moment, you can’t even tell which way is up or down as your body collides against the floor and skids across its unforgiving surface.

the pain spreads through your back with such vicious intensity that it nearly forces another cry from your throat. you can feel it - no, know it with dreadful certainty - that several of your vertebrae have broken upon impact.

every attempt to move sends fresh waves of agony shooting through your body, while your nerves scream in protest at even the slightest shift of your weight. your vision blurs at the edges, spots dancing across your sight as your mind desperately struggles to remain conscious through the overwhelming pain.

and yet, even through all of that, one horrifying realization remains painfully clear.

dyle has not stopped moving, nor has he finished with you.

the serpent-like twisted now advances at a noticeably slower pace, as if the kill is already set in stone and there’s no longer any need to hasten the hunt.

with each step he takes, your heart tightens within your chest. the sound of his approach falls into a dreadful rhythm, one that resembles a funeral march more than footsteps. a rhythm you no longer possess the luxury of dismissing. 

but as it turns out, death doesn’t seem particularly eager to claim you just yet. 

because despite the pain creeping through every muscle and bone in your body, your senses remain frustratingly intact - intact enough to keep track of the time passing, at least.

and the longer this strange standoff continues, the more questions begin to surface - namely, why hasn’t he killed you yet?

surely enough time has passed by now.

carefully, you gather what little strength and courage remain within you and force your eyes open - only to nearly stop breathing altogether.

dyle is close.

his clock face hovers mere inches from your own, eyes fixed upon you with unusual intensity. rather than the mindless aggression you had anticipated, his gaze seems almost. . . searching. studying. as though he is trying to find something, or perhaps remember it. even his brows are drawn together in a noticeable frown.

right. 

you used to know him - used to be rather close, in fact. perhaps - just perhaps - that connection still exists somewhere beneath the twisted creature standing before you now. perhaps there’s something left to recognize - something left to save your life.

the fragile hope quickly sparks into an idea. a foolish, meaningless idea.

but considering the alternative is being torn apart where you lie, you can’t exactly afford to be selective.

if there is even the slightest chance it might work, then you have to try.

thus, ever so slowly, ever so carefully, you lift your uninjured arm from the cold ground.

every movement sends fresh agony lancing through your body, but you grit your teeth and continue nonetheless until your trembling hand reaches him.

then, with all the strength you can presently muster, you lightly push against the massive twisted - a weak, hesitant gesture; one thoroughly coated in fear.

yet perhaps it rings a bell somewhere within the haze of his fractured memories - because instead of immediately chomping your arm off for daring such a thing, dyle simply follows the silent signal and leans back.

not too much or too little, merely enough for you to realize you've been holding your breath this entire time.

still, before long, you barely manage to taste that small patch of relief upon the tip of your tongue when he suddenly moves again - toward you.

the next thing you know, your vision lurches.

“what-?” the word leaves you in a bewildered blink - then another. and another - before awareness finally catches up with reality. 

you are, indeed, trapped between his arms. neatly tucked against his chest - though ‘comfortably’ would be a rather generous description - as if you’re some treasured object he has abruptly decided to keep. or perhaps a favorite chew toy.

the sudden movement immediately sends pain flaring through your injured back all over again, earning a strained sound from your throat before you can stop it.

dyle stills.

and for a brief moment, he almost looks. . . guilty?

his eyes remain stained the same unsettling shade of red, yet something beneath them feels familiar. a fractured remnant of emotion. a glimpse of the dyle you once knew.

it seems he cannot speak in whatever state he currently occupies; so instead, he settles for actions - the tip of his tail slowly enters your field of vision, curling its way toward you before gently brushing against your cheek.

then, without haste, it winds itself around your arm - loose enough not to hurt, and firm enough not to let go. like he is afraid you might leave.

in spite of the fact that you are already safely - and very much thoroughly - trapped within his embrace.

there isn’t much you can do about the situation, admittedly. It’s not like you can suddenly summon enough strength to break free from the arms of a lethal - much less when said lethal has you wrapped up like this.

at the very least, dyle no longer appears interested in tearing you apart. that’s a comforting thought, somewhat.

besides, if fortune decides to be merciful for once, perhaps your teammates will eventually come looking for you and sort this whole mess out themselves. hopefully sooner rather than later.

until then. . . well.

you’re exhausted.

your entire body hurts, your spine feels as if it has been put through a grinder and the lingering adrenaline has long since begun giving way to fatigue.

therefore, you suppose a quick nap - just a very quick one - wouldn’t hurt either.

— however, from time to time, you'll catch him repeating the phrase under his breath later on. whether it's an attempt to commit it to memory or simply to better understand such a peculiar choice of words remains difficult to tell.

➤ THE MANAGER OF LA MANCHALAND DON QUIXOTE

— scoffs at you with her brows drawn together so tightly you'd almost think she genuinely despises being called pretty. she'll likely tell you to cut it out, too.

— in reality, however, it's less annoyance and more a poorly concealed attempt at handling her embarrassment. she simply doesn't know what to do with a compliment like that, especially when there are far more pressing matters demanding her attention.

— in short, she. . . kind of likes it. unfortunately that's a fact she'd sooner carry to her grave than admit out loud.

➤ BLADE OF HOUSE OF SPIDERS RYOSHU

— gets flustered for a brief moment, perhaps - just perhaps - even stopping dead in her tracks. it's almost amusing when compared to the composed, full-of-hatred image she usually carries herself with.

— fortunately for her, the lapse doesn't last long - she quickly regains her composure and firmly tells you not to say such things again, regardless of whether she enjoys hearing it or not.

➤ THE LORD OF HONGYUAN HONG LU

— if you happen to say it while he's in a particularly good mood and free from work, he'll simply flash you that infuriatingly smug smile and tease you right back and forth.

— however, should you catch him during one of his more serious moments - or before the two of you haven't grown particularly close yet - he'll merely tell you to stop spouting such absurd nonsense and focus on whatever task requires your attention instead.

➤ WILD HUNT HEATHCLIFF

— genuinely wonders what force in the universe compelled you to utter those words aloud, and to him of all people no less.

— surprisingly, the feeling it evokes is less embarrassment and more sorrow. in some distant, unpleasant way, it reminds him of her.

— as a result, he'll either fall completely silent - lost somewhere deep within his thoughts and regrets - or bluntly tell you never to call him that again.

➤THE PEQUOD CAPTAIN ISHMAEL

— repeats the phrase beneath her breath for a moment before letting out an amused laugh.

— she'd much prefer being called "captain" over "girl," but she'll let it slide this once.

— regardless, she finds the whole thing oddly amusing. in fact, despite herself, she has a surprisingly difficult time disliking the thought of hearing you say it again.

➤ THE ONE WHO SHALL GRIP SINCLAIR

— despite everything he's endured, sinclair would still be caught off guard and flustered much like his base self. after all, he's spent far more time being ordered to purge heretics than being called. . . whatever it was you just called him.

— he does try to process it - emphasis on try. as much as he wants to tell you to stop; to insist that of all the people deserving such a compliment, he certainly isn't one of them - the words never quite leave his mouth.

— because despite knowing full well he doesn't deserve to be called that, despite believing he shouldn't want to hear it - he can't help but let it happen.

— much to his own shame, he finds himself waiting for the next time you'll say it again.

➤ G. CORP MANAGAER CORPORAL GREGOR

— you? saying that? to him? him specifically?

— you really ought to get your eyes checked. or perhaps you're simply that much of a sadist, intent on rubbing salt into that bleeding and rotting wounds of his.

— because as far as he's concerned, being called a "repulsive pest" would make far more sense than whatever this is. there's no need to play tricks on him like that.

— and if you insist you're being genuine, he'll only laugh awkwardly and look away. perhaps some things are simply easier to dismiss as a joke than to hope might be true.

did he say something wrong? misspeak somewhere earlier perhaps?

“. . .yeah?” he answers after a second, giving a small nod. “why?”

you hum thoughtfully for dramatic effect before flashing him a thumbs-up.

“nice name.”

“huh?”

“i was just thinking,” you continue far too casually for whatever direction this conversation is apparently heading toward. “if our names were put together, would it sound good?”

sinclair stares at you with a completely dumbfounded expression.

“something like, emil [name].” you suggest ever so innocently. “doesn’t that sound kinda neat?”

for several seconds that feel equivalent to an eternity itself, sinclair genuinely forgets how to respond.

in reality, however, his face is rapidly adopting an alarming shade of red, conveying quite effectively that he is, in fact, internally combusting on the spot.

“what?!” he blurts out far louder than intended, eyes widening as he blinks frantically. “w-wait, why are you saying it like that all of a sudden?!”

“what’s the problem?” you ask innocently, as though you hadn’t just casually and passively proposed marriage in the middle of a conversation. “you don’t like it?”

“n-no, that’s not what i mean-”

the poor boy completely short-circuits halfway through his sentence, his entire system seemingly shutting down as both hands immediately fly up to cover a face now bearing an uncanny resemblance to a tomato.

meanwhile, you can’t help the amused grin tugging at your lips as you watch him struggle this hard over a single hypothetical name combination.

“. . . you’re doing this on purpose. .” sinclair mumbles weakly from behind his hands, unable to meet your gaze anymore.

“maybe,” you simply shrug.

“that’s so unfair.”

“and yet you still haven’t answered my question.”

the champagne-haired man lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine.

“. . i-i think it sounds nice.”

“aw, really?” you giggle, absentmindedly poking at the makeshift shield of hands he’d raised in a futile attempt to hide his overly flustered state.

“d-don’t do that. . .”

“do what?”

“look so happy about it-!”

➤ FAUST ❝ an intriguing phenomenon. faust was previously unaware a human could vocalize in such a manner. ❞

faust’s reaction is less surprise and more immediate analysis.

rather than making a significant deal out of your. . . purring, she instead focuses on understanding how exactly you’re capable of producing such an unusual vocalization - especially considering no ordinary human should realistically be able to replicate a sound of that nature so naturally.

once she reaches a satisfactory conclusion, however, faust quickly relegates it into the category of harmless background noise and moves on without much further fuss.

➤ DON QUIXOTE ❝ most marvelous ! thou soundeth akin to a contented feline creature !! ❞

needless to say, she’s absolutely fascinated.

don quixote reacts as if you’d just unveiled some legendary hidden technique spoken of only in ancient tales, eyes practically sparkling with excitement the moment she hears the sound.

before long, she’s already asking you to do it again. and again. and perhaps one more time for confirmation.

whether you indulge her curiosity or refuse outright, the aftermath usually consists of don attempting to mimic the sound herself - with results ranging from terribly inaccurate to outright concerning.

➤ RYOSHU ❝ hmph. C.L. ❞

initially raises a brow, briefly wondering whether the sound had simply come from elsewhere before realizing it originated from you.

while she’d never openly admit it in plain terms, she does find the trait aesthetically appealing in its own strange way. enough to occasionally give your head a brief stroke if the mood strikes her.

unsurprisingly, she also ends up assigning you some cryptic cat-related nickname afterward and continues using it whenever referring to you.

➤ MEURSAULT ❝ empirical observation: you emit such sound 4.7 times per minute during affection, ±0.3 with hand placement. ❞

maybe he offers a short observation regarding the unusual sound. maybe not. either way, meursault ultimately treats the matter with the same level of neutrality he approaches most things with.

that said, due to his remarkably precise memory. should any of the sinners ever question when, why or under what conditions you tend to purr, meursault is capable of answering almost immediately - often with enough accuracy to make it seem as though he’d been silently documenting your behavior for research purposes all along.

➤ HONG LU ❝ ah, there’s that lovely sound again. ❞

he reacts rather similarly to don quixote, albeit far less explosively energetic about it.

and instead of confusion, hong lu accepts your purring surprisingly naturally. if anything, he seems amused and charmed by it more than anything else.

before long, he starts subtly encouraging the behavior too; resting beside you more often, absentmindedly playing with your hair, or speaking in that soft, gentle tone of his simply because he enjoys hearing the sound return afterward.

➤ HEATHCLIFF ❝ oi, knock it off already. ❞

definitely throws him off here and there at first, though heathcliff eventually reaches a point where he simply accepts it as another one of your strange little harmless habits, especially compared to the several far more concerning habits possessed by the rest of his colleagues aboard the bus.

that said, he still gets visibly flustered whenever you start purring because of him specifically. every single time. he’ll grumble and tell you to quit it already, regardless of whether he actually dislikes the sound or not.

➤ ISHMAEL ❝ wait, seriously ? humans can actually do that ? ❞

looks around. stares at you. then glances around the surroundings once more before narrowing her eyes at you again - visibly trying to process and confirm what exactly she’d just heard.

once she realizes the sound is genuinely, really, truly coming from you; however, her confusion gradually melts into reluctant fondness alongside a noticeable hint of bewilderment.

although she’d never openly make a huge fuss over it, she does slowly begin associating your purring with quieter, safer moments aboard the bus. maybe even coupled with a faint smile of hers that ishmael herself isn’t aware of.

➤ RODION ❝ aww, there it is again~ c’mon, lemme hear it one more time ! ❞

absolutely adores it from the very start.

the second rodion realizes you tend to purr whenever comfortable or affectionate, she immediately starts trying to coax the sound out of you on purpose - especially whenever she has nothing better to do. this usually involves excessive cuddling, cheek squishing, playing with your hair and invading your personal space with absolutely zero shame whatsoever.

and unfortunately for you, your reactions only amuse her even more afterward.

➤ SINCLAIR ❝ o-oh. that means you’re. . happy right now, right ? ❞

poor sinclair nearly short-circuits the first time he hears you purr.

he freezes completely for several seconds, a soft blush spreading like petals across his face - all the more once he understands it’s born from your comfort in his presence.

soon enough, he grows noticeably softer whenever it happens - partly because the endearing sound reminds him of normalcy, partly because it’s simply soothing to hear - though most of the time he’s far too flustered to mention it directly, of course.

➤ OUTIS ❝ you seem. . rather prone to making that sound around me lately. ❞

maybe a little mildly surprised at first, but that’s about the extent of it. you being able to purr isn’t exactly the end of the world or anything, is it ?

but you may catch those same subtle little reactions whenever you purr near her - or because of her purposefully - if your eyes happen to be sharp enough for it, though discerning whatever thoughts lie behind them remains practically impossible as always.

➤ GREGOR ❝ hah. . . guess that means you’re comfortable around me, huh? ❞

somewhat caught off guard the first few times he hears you purr just like the rest of the sinners, and he adjusts to it in a short time too.

before long, he starts finding the sound oddly soothing - enough for your presence itself to gradually become something nice to have around from time to time.